


In the Place Where They Found Her

by Match (pachipachi)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And Unrealistic Depictions Thereof, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Not A Fix-It, Recovery, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 14:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pachipachi/pseuds/Match
Summary: Miriam was hustled offscreen rather quickly. I wanted to give her a coda.





	In the Place Where They Found Her

There was water in the place where they found her. It was Miriam who found water in the wilderness, that's in the Bible. A miraculous well followed the Israelites wherever they went. 

That sounds about right. She will carry that water inside her all the days of her life.

*

He took her arm, and they gave her another, and then they took it away again. They gave her back a hoodie with no drawstring and shoes with no laces. He's still around, though. He made sure of that.

He has no name. She guessed wrong twice. There won't be a third chance.

*

When her oubliette cracked open, there was the same blue light, strobing so quickly it appeared steady. No, that was a flashlight. No, that was the moon. 

*

She's lucky, they say. She's recovering well. Phantom limb pain is treatable, they say. Please tell us if you experience any symptoms. You’ve suffered enough.

It’s enough like something he might have said that Miriam remains silent on principle. Pain means she’s awake. Probably.

*

She’s not supposed to have anything elastic, but they don’t want to cut her hair. They’re preserving her like a piece of evidence. Which in a way, she is. Her body will have to stand for all the things her voice cannot bear witness to.

She can’t put it in a ponytail by herself, and anyway the hair tie comes loose when she sleeps. She could do braids, they say. When she wants to wash her hair they’ll rebraid it afterward, it’s no trouble. One tail or two? Side or center? French braid? The less something matters, the more choices they offer. Tell me if I’m pulling too hard, they say.

And that’s another one she always hears in his voice.

Did he ever, they say, strand against strand whispering over the nape of her neck, did he ever fix your hair for you?

No, she says. Not like this. Between the bathroom mirror and a borrowed compact, a perfect fishtail braid switches the tops of her shoulders.

Hm, they say. He probably didn’t know how. Do you like it?

It’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to her in weeks. 

They have worked on her body something he could not, have made her hair something invisible to him. He recedes. By the time he comes round again, maybe she'll have found another part of herself to vanish.


End file.
